Four in Hand
by Ziva- Zia- Z
Summary: Four always held a special meaning to her. She was one of four, and, years later, would go on to have four of her own. Post-Bell, Mid-Monuments. Elphaba-centric. Elphaba/OC.


**Four in Hand**

 **Rifiuto: Non Miriena**

 **Summary: Four always held a special meaning to her. She was one of four, and, years later, would go on to have four of her own. Post-Bell, Mid-Monuments. Elphaba-centric. Elphaba/OC.**

 **A/N: Written: 2006. Found: 2018.**

Four was a very important number.

So important, in fact, that the Fliaanian religion put special emphasis on the fourth month of the year- specifically on the fourth day of the fourth month of the year.

She had been born on the fourth day of that very month, and though she was not the fourth daughter, she was one of four, and, years later, would go on to have four of her own.

Of both sexes.

The images lay before her; portraits of the four of them posed for special events, candid shots of the four of them together, dressed in their matching gowns and hats, playing tennis, or painting, playing in the water at Caprice-in-the-Pines, or sitting for tea among close relatives. In those days, it had been easy to distinguish and find the four daughters of the Samaraat and his wife, for they always dressed alike, wore their hair the same way- unless Mama had permitted her to wear her customary braid. More often than not, she wore her hair exactly like her sisters- down with the sides and front held back when she was younger; up when older- identical copies of four girls often a couple years apart in age.

The photographs captured moments in time; they were lovely, beautiful, innocent Fliaanian princesses who knew nothing of the ways of the world or how their people suffered. Four identical sets of emerald diamonds were tattooed by their eyes- two by two, one pair on the outer edge of each eye- denouncing their rank and status.

Laughter floated up to her from below; her children were in the gardens, no doubt keeping their father on his toes. He'd nearly had a heart attack when she'd informed him that she wanted eight children; he'd tried to put his foot down with the last two, but she'd won out. It was her body, they were her children; he had helped to create them, but in the end they were hers.

Her mind began to wander, and she stood, going to the mantel; images of her own children hung from the walls. One portrait in particular caught her eye- a formal shot of her daughters, lined up in birth order. Though it was only a head shot, it was evident, how much they mirrored her and her sisters. Her oldest, her darling Faola, with her long black hair and blue eyes, stared out at her mother, the same expression on her face that graced Sophelia's features in the portrait that was a mirror of the new one. _I'm the oldest; I'm responsible for the younger ones._

 _Just like your beloved Aunt Elia._ Her gaze moved to her middle daughters, her twins, so identical it was difficult to tell them apart- and they took advantage of their identicality. It wasn't uncommon for Trism to call for one and get the other, claiming to be her sister. A delightful little game of theirs that annoyed their parents to no end, but their parents knew the difference. Though they were identical, there was one subtle difference to help tell the twins apart. Havni had a tiny beauty mark beneath her left eye; Fechín's beauty mark was under her right eye. The mark told them which child they were talking to, and allowed them to quickly catch onto their daughters' game.

Fechín was as laid back as her aunt Oziandra had been, and it worried her. She let things pass, flitting among the flowers of the garden or the books in the study, never hurrying for anything except food, those big blue eyes she'd inherited from her father making whoever she was talking to forget what they were doing or what they'd been talking about. _Too much of a mystery_ , as Papa would say.

Havni on the other hand was as wild as her Aunt Nessa, as outgoing and clownish as her mother's younger sister had been. She was the clown of the four, with the gregarious personality, the big smile and wild imagination. With her father's blue eyes and her mother's black hair, she was a striking little girl, just like her sisters, but she preferred to play games over doing things like lessons. Neither Elphaba nor Trism had told anyone which of the girls was older; they preferred the mystery- it was speculated that they themselves did not even know which was older- and so left the people guessing in regards to which twin was older.

And then there was Vala, her youngest daughter, her second youngest child, resting her head on her sister's shoulder, as Nessa was doing in the portrait of her mother and aunts. The oldest of her second set of twins. Her personality was closer to her own, and she clung to her sisters like glue. She was the one that Trism was sure was part angel, for she never got into trouble, never seemed to do anything wrong, though Elphaba knew better. Her own father had once thought _she_ was part angel.

Her gaze moved up, to the portrait above the two. The portrait was of four sisters that had come before her children, that had come before even she and her sisters- her mother and her aunts, for Melena had been one daughter of four as well. In a pose similar to the ones her daughters and granddaughters were in, she stared out at her surviving child with dark eyes, at the tender age of ten. To think, they were all gone now, most swept away with the revolution.

One generation stolen from the world in a tragic twist of fate, to make way for a new generation of princesses, born from the ashes of the old. It was almost ironic, that she herself ended up with four daughters, when she had once wanted thirty. To every season, as Melena would say.

Strong arms wrapped around her waist; the scent of sunlight and flowers reached her nose, and she turned her head, nuzzling against him. "You're too deep in though, my queen. Is there anything I can help with?"

She sighed, turning her gaze back to the portraits. "Just... thinking."

"About what, may I ask?" She reached up, tangling her fingers in his hair as he pressed a kiss to her temple.

"About them." Her gaze moved to her sisters. "And how much I love them."

He followed her gaze, before it moved to the one of their daughters. "They would not want us to live in the past, my darling. Not since we have each other, and our own pairs of four."

She turned to him. "Fours do not come in pairs, my king. They're quartets." She slid her arms around his neck, and his arms moved to her waist, holding her close.

"Quartets, then." He amended, resting his forehead to hers. "And we have two." He pulled away, tugging her towards the balcony. He pulled open the door, stepping out and tugging her with him.

"No, we have four. Four of each. Four daughters and four sons."

He laughed, pulling her closer. "You're right, we do." Without another word, he kissed her, drinking her in as the sunlight warmed her back. She pulled away, meeting his gaze, one hand coming up to caress his cheek.

"You know, four is significant in my country."

He shook his head. "I didn't."

She nodded. "The number four is a symbol of good luck in Fliaanian culture. Mama and Papa were considered very lucky to have four daughters before their son."

He pulled her closer, kissing her deeply, drinking her in as much as he could. He lifted her off her feet, and she wrapped her arms tight around his neck. "I'd say we're doubly lucky then."


End file.
